And I did.
I learned to manage a household before I learned to manage myself. I figured out how to read their moods, ease their rough days, and ensure dinner was on the table, even when my mind was racing too loudly to think.
I picked up how to swear, drink whiskey, and outwork the ranch hands because that’s what Cutter women do, apparently. I learned to be loud, so no one would notice how easily I disappeared into my own head.
Somewhere along the way, I stopped being the baby sister who needed watching and became the woman who kept everything running: the cook, the cleaner, the emotional manager for three men who’d rather rope a bull than talk about feelings.
But in that transition, I lost the feeling of being... seen.
Loved, yes. Protected to the utmost. But seen? Known?
That part faded away.
“I just need to know who I am,” I say softly now. “Without you three hovering.”
Without being the Cutter girl who needs watching. Without being Jane-who-can’t-sit-still, Jane-who-talks-too-much, Jane-who-overreacts-to-everything.
“Jane,” Caleb says cautiously. “We just want to know what’s going on.”
My laugh is too loud and sharp around the edges. Even I can hear how off it sounds, but I can’t stop. “No, you want to know so you can tell me why it’s a bad idea.”
“That’s not true,” Boone says, finally putting the paperaside. “Sometimes we let you have bad ideas.”
“Name one.”
He opens his mouth, then closes it. Opens it again.
Weston clears his throat. “That time you decided to?—”
“Nope.” I hold up a hand. “That doesn’t count. I was nineteen.”
“You're only twenty-six now,” Boone mutters. “Twenty-six is ancient in impulsive-decision years.”
Caleb exhales slowly. I see the weight he carries. The burden of being twenty-two and suddenly responsible for everything. “You didn’t come home last night.”
My stomach clenches. There it is.
“Ididcome home. Just not... here.”
His jaw tightens. “You didn’t answer your phone.”
“I was busy.” Busy pacing Marlie’s waiting room. Busy reading the contract for the fifth time. Busy trying to convince myself I wasn’t making a mistake.
“With what?” Weston asks.
“Living,” I snap, then immediately regret it.
The room goes still.
I run a hand through my hair, which is too tangled and too loud, like everything else about me. My mind buzzes again, that familiar static telling me I’m about two minutes from saying something I can’t take back.
“Look.” I force my voice to steady. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. I just... need to do something that’s mine. Figure something out on my own.”
Boone leans back, arms crossed. “You already do whatever you want.”
“Not really,” I say. “I do whatever you’reokaywith.”
That hits home.
